Author's Note: This takes place before Resident Evil 4. Nothing references in that game will come into play here. I started the story long before RE4 came out, so that's just the way it's going to stay.
Kingdom Come
Prologue Part 1: Wheels within Wheels
July 4 - 9:30PM
Ada Wong was angry. Matter of fact, she was far beyond angry, to an emotionless pit of anger and fear and hatred, so far down she couldn't even see the light anymore.
But she could see the target.
Six shots. Seven. Eight. Click.
"Damn it."
With a growl, the Asian woman flopped back onto the bench in the targeting range, her faintly accented voice echoing around the empty room. She ejected the clip of her pistol, letting it clatter to the floor, and glanced over at the clock as she pulled a second clip from her bag. Jesus. Nine thirty.
She'd been in here for four hours.
She was probably one of the last people in the building by now. Course, the Exec's practically lived on the upper floors, but that wasn't her concern. She stayed down here, in the basement of the Umbrella Corporations Headquarters in Paris, France.
The proverbial Bowels of Hell.
She'd been idling here since her escape and eventual return from Raccoon city, and she spent every day in the shooting gallery, or the gym, or the pool, or one of a variety of other activities she used to ensure that she didn't think about Raccoon City.
Or Leon.
She could almost here his voice; in that sewer under the police station…"Look Ada, it's my job to look after you. Besides, we don't stand a chance of getting out of here alive if we don't work together. But you lied to me, didn't you Ada. Like the rat you were. Lied to my face to get your stupid virus." Of course, he hadn't said that, but…it was implied. Always implied…
"Damn it, get out of my head…" She pushed back to her feet, slapping the next clip into the pistol and rotating back towards the target. Bang!
Bull's-eye.
She stopped firing, her dark eyes staring at that perfectly round hole in the middle of the target's forehead. Well. She could always have done that. She had done it before, after all. The moment she'd seen him in the garage, just shot him in the back of the head. No problem. No questioning orders. Nothing.
"And why didn't I?" She sat back down again, cradling the pistol in her lap like a child, the faint sent of gunpowder floating up to her nose.
"Why didn't you what?"
She jerked her head up, staring over towards the door and the young man who was leaning against the wall now. He couldn't have been more then twenty-five, dressed in a simple brown business suit, with brown hair and a self-satisfied smirk. Richard Vimes, one of the semi-important toadies the executives had taken a liking to this week.
You're getting slow, Wong. Letting someone sneak up on you like that.
"What do you want, Vimes?" Ignoring his question, she pushed to her feet and injected the almost-full clip, setting it on the counter nearby and beginning to disassemble the pistol for cleaning.
"Why Ada, whatever makes you think I want something? Can't I simply come downstairs to say hello to my favorite has-been assassin? And please, call me Richard." His footsteps echoed through the room as he walked over towards her and leaned against the wall next to her, his arms crossed across his chest.
"Bullshit, Vimes. Of course you want something. No one comes down here this late at night unless they want something from me. And you've never been down here in your entire life." She picked up the barrel of the pistol and waved it him absently as she air-dried it. "Besides that, you told me two weeks ago to never call you by your first name, and that you wouldn't sink so low as to talk to me." She just smirked and snapped the gun back together.
"Yes, well…things have changed Ada. With the Noah's Ark project reaching completion, and with that idiot Arnold instituting his cleansweap agenda, whatever the hell it is… We all have to find allies where we can. Things are going to be much different around here, I think. I just thought you would want in."
"In on what? Some crackpot scheme you whipped up to take over the company? Or maybe you have some new genetics idea you want to throw at the scientists. They always love that. Look at the tyrant project, after all." She slipped the clip back into the gun and turned to him, smiling faintly. "And you know Vimes, you should be careful what you say. Our dear President Arnold does have the entire building monitored." She pointed a thin finger at the camera rotating back and forth in the corner.
The brown haired man paled visibly and glanced towards the camera for a moment, reaching up to adjust his tie quickly. "I doubt he has time to check all the tapes. Besides, we all know this camera just shows is an operative who hides down here all day and hasn't bothered to take a mission in almost two years. I don't think that is his regular viewing material, Ada."
"Whatever." She resisted the urge to just shoot him by sticking the pistol into the back of her belt. "Look, I'm busy. So just tell me what you want, or get the hell out of my face."
"Fine." His face grew serious and he turned towards the door with a shrug. "I'm going. But listen, you'd better get out of Paris for a while; somewhere in the country, maybe, like a…bomb shelter. All the hire-ups have been told to do so. Cleansweap isn't what any of us think."
"What do you mean? And why are you telling me this?" Ada frowned, cocking her head to the side. It didn't make any sense, no one in this company ever tried to help her.
"Because, if I'm right, then you'll owe me a favor," he glanced back at her and grinned. "And if I'm not, well…no harm done." The door swished shut behind him.
"Yeah, right," the spy shook her head, tugging out her pistol and turning back towards the target. Like the president was stupid enough to do anything here in Paris. She'd be perfectly safe in the building.
One shot. Two.
Of course, there was the time when he'd let the hunters loose in the cafeteria…
Five. Six.
And the 'accidental' release in Raccoon…
Eight. Click.
"…Shit."
She scooped up her jacket and cell phone and was out the door, dialing as she went.
Prologue Part 2: Endgame
July 10 – 4:45 PM
Sirus Arnold, President of Umbrella Incorporated, the International pharmaceuticals company, tossed the small controller absently from one hand to the other as he looked out the large glass window of his office. He could see all of the eastern side of Paris from there, and normally, such a sight would have relaxed him immensely. But now, things were different. The controller returned to his left hand, and he looked down at the buttons on it. So much power, held in such a small machine…a remarkable little machine, really. Just flick the switch, and everything would change. "My own little hand of God." He mused softly, a faint smile tugging at the sides of his mouth.
"Pardon, sir?" The crisp, clear voice of Sirus's assistant, Thomas, echoed over to Arnold from somewhere near the doorway.
"Nothing, Thomas. Just…talking to myself." He spun his chair around, tossing the controller back into his right hand, and settled back. "How goes it?"
"Well, sir…" Thomas stepped forward slowly, dark brown eyes on the floor, hands clenching and unclenching at his stomach. He looked tired, with ragged, unwashed hair, pasty skin, and an off-color white coat…such a change from the ever-efficient Thomas Parmer that Sirus knew before. Well, such as it was, Sirus doubted he looked any better.
As Thomas gathered his thoughts, Arnold tossed the controller back and forth. "Well, sir…" Thomas repeated, frowning, taking a deep breath. "The intruders are three levels below us, at last check, sir. We believe they are attempting to get to the service elevator that leads up here. And we don't have a large number of guards left, anymore. Not after you sent so many to the Ark."
"Ah, yes…well, we expected this, didn't we Thomas? We planned for it, almost hoped for it." He sighed, leaning back in that large chair of his, head against soft leather. "And so…" He tosses the controller back into his hand, and pushed the first switch. The first of four; there was no going back now. In a few moments, the halls outside would be swarming with the perfected 122 Slayer class Hunters, one last challenge to stop the intruders. His scientist assured him they were unstoppable -- history had a habit of proving such things wrong.
"So what do we do now, sir?" The younger man's eyes were wide, glued to that small plastic box; such an insignificant piece of machinery, to hold so much power.
"Now, Thomas, we wait. It shouldn't be long."
Chris Redfield dropped to his knees and rolled back behind the wall as a hail of gunfire tore through the air where he'd been. "Grenade!" He called out, and found one rolling up to him from somewhere behind. Good Old Barry, always had what you needed. He tucked the muzzle of his pistol under one arm, tugged out the pin, and threw the explosive around the corner, covering his ears as he turned back.
The explosion wasn't fantastic anymore. A year ago, throwing a live grenade at a squad of armed guards would have seemed like some kind of dream. Or nightmare, rather. But now, as the explosion subsided, Chris stood slowly, glancing over at his bearded friend, Barry Burton, who was crouching several feet away. Behind him was the rest of the volunteer Squad they'd assembled. A ragtag group, yes, but one Chris was proud of.
Lewis Dodge, a specialist in situational combat, such as hallways and office areas, was a quick eyed man with his hands gripped around the butts of two handguns. Shirley Black, explosives expert, was slumped against a wall with her backpack in her lap, handing Barry another grenade. Roger Delento, rounding out the remaining members, was a crack shot, an infiltration expert, and someone Chris would want at his back. He was carrying a shoulder strap machine gun and six or seven clips.
After a quiet moment, spent reviewing the squad, Chris sighed. He'd come in here with a nine-man team, and he was down to five. He'd expected losses, of course. He wasn't sure any of them would make it out. Still…
"Okay folks, time to go. The elevator to the top floor will be just down this hall." He grinned at them, running a hand through dark brown hair, mated with blood and gore. It had been a hard fight…but they were almost there.
"Sir? Ah…the security system reports that they are on the floor."
"Yes, well…inevitable, Thomas. That's what this is, after all. Inevitable." Sirus had put down the small box, on his knee, but now it returned to that worn hand of his. Perhaps not actually…Sirus had never worked a day in his life at manual labor. But figuratively, he'd slaved for the last fifteen years, to make this company work. And now these blind fools were going to take that all away from him. Had taken it all away from him. Well…not even he could help it.
Flick. The second switch was thrown, killing the elevators to this floor. They would be trapped.
Just like he seemed to be.
Sirus smiled.
"Chris, the elevator just blew!" Shirley's high-pitched, startled voice broke the tense silence a few moments after they had emerged from the double doors. Chris turned and saw that all the lights on the elevator panels had indeed gone out, and there was a bit of smoke coming through the door jam. "Well…shit." No going back that way. A wave of his hand brought silence again, and he nodded to Dodge, who moved forward with a nervous smile, pistols held out. The last floor was fairly straightforward, if Chris remembered the map right: several dead-end corridors, the last section of management, a small Security office, and then Sirus Arnold's office.
Where this would all end.
"Okay people. Fan out, triangle pattern, just like we planned." Well, to a point. They had assumed five or six of them would get through, so the team had practiced several different formations. With Chris on point, Barry on his left and Dodge on his right, and then the other two behind, they moved quickly down the halls.
The first turn came out onto an empty hallway, and they proceeded quickly. The second turn, however, was a double-ended hall coming out to a T-junction. Slowly, they edged out into the open area, Barry and Chris looking right, Dodge and Black looking left, and Delento covering them. Chris studied the long hallway, eyes searching. And then he froze.
Standing not thirty feet away, its froglike hump and long, clawed arms unmistakable, was a hunter. It was a creature perhaps two-thirds the height of a man, with warty, leather skin, small black eyes, and a huge mouthful of teeth. Flashes of the tunnels under the Mansion, fighting those fast, lethal killing machines in darkened passages and tiny hallways, came instantly to Chris's mind. This one was different though; bigger, for one thing, with longer claws, though he wasn't sure about that, and a bluish color instead of green.
The creature let out a scream, throwing its head back, waving those arms at its side, and leaped, extremely strong legs hurling it up towards the high ceiling, and towards Chris. And he didn't move. Dimly, he registered something coming up at his side, something reflective. There was an explosion of sound a foot or so from his ear, and the creature flew back, catching the edge of a wall, twirling, and collapsing in a heap.
"Jesus…I didn't think they'd release those things in their own headquarters. Hey, Chris, you okay?" Barry lowered the smoking barrel of his Colt Python, the pride of his collection, and turned towards his friend. "Chris?"
"Huh…Yeah, Sorry Barry. Just froze up for a second. Old memories, you know?" The bearded man nodded faintly, giving his companion a pat on the shoulder. The other three had turned at the sound of the scream and the shot, and they all moved down the hall, stopping by the body of the hunter.
A puddle of blood was forming beneath it, the sinewy arms and legs thrashing as the creature attempted to stand. The large, oozing hole from the hollow-point round was keeping the creature from doing so, though.
"It's different then the ones from the mansion." Barry said quietly, kicking at it with his boot. "Look, it's got these spikes on the arms, and it's definitely a foot or so bigger. Broader, too. Must be stronger. You know, give it a farther jump and a heavier hit."
"Makes sense." Chris frowned, glancing over at the three others. They were staring at the creature in stunned disbelief. He'd warned them; they all had. But it was understandable that they hadn't believed -- until now, anyway.
"Come on. There may be more of them out here, and we have a job to do." Chris lifted his gun and started moving, quickly, down to the hall, glancing around. He could see the door, a hundred or so yards away. "Move!" The rest followed.
They were halfway there when the screams started, identical to the one the hunter in the hall had made, echoing throughout the hallways. At a dead run, they crossed the last stretch, sliding to a stop by the door. "Open it." Chris told Shirley, who nodded, as the rest turned.
At the end of the hall they had just come out of were three of the hunters, standing quite still, watching the Squad. With soft thumps, two more of the creatures stepped into view, and turned.
"Shirley?" Chris said softly. He received a muffled response that might have been 'almost got it' but might not have been. Guns were leveled towards the creatures.
As if of one mind, the four opened fire, and the two end creatures went down, one with a magnum shot in its head, the other with a combination of rounds in its torso. The other three charged, one leaping, two running. And they were fast. Chris set his jaw as he fired, along with Dodge, at one of the running ones, while Barry blew his entire remaining five shots on the leaping one, winging it in the arm and sending it smashing back to the ground, screaming painfully.
As the bearded man tugged out a speedloader from his belt, another of the creatures went down, under the hail of fire from Chris and Dodge. One left, charging Delento. He'd emptied most of the clip of his machine gun into the bluish body, ruining the left arm, the side, and most of the lower torso, and yet it kept coming. As the others shifted their aim, it was perhaps five yards away, and it slowed, bending its knees to jump, letting out that carnal scream.
Bam! A heavy caliber pistol, less then the colt Barry carried, but not by much, fired a slug straight into the creatures eye, and it went tumbling, that scream cut off into a gurgle. The four spun, looking at the small woman behind them. With a smile, Shirley holstered her weapon. "The doors open, boys."
Delento smiled weakly, tugging out the clip of his gun and replacing it, as all the others were doing. And then he walked over to Shirley and kissed her. "You are beautiful, darlin!" That faint Georgian accent echoed through from the man, and the explosives expert blushed slightly.
"You can flirt later, people." Chris shook his head, but he couldn't help but smile. He'd wanted to do the same thing, really. Fighting a hunter at close range would have been impossible, even ignoring the fact that it would have probably taken one of their heads off in that jump.
"In we go." Glock raised, Chris shoved the door open.
Sirus leaned back in his chair as the door opened, the small controller resting lightly in his palm. A reassurance that he still held the upper hand kept him calm. They stepped in quickly, one by one, guns held ready, and Sirus absently went over what he knew of them. Chris Redfield was an Ex-air force pilot, Ex-Special Tactics and Rescue Squad member, an expert with handheld weapons, and the brother of Claire Redfield. Barry Burton, weapons specialist, father of two, and another of the Ex-STARS. The others were wildcards, it seemed. He had faces on file, but no names, and no real information. But that wouldn't matter. "Ah…Good afternoon. What can I do for you?" He smiled to Chris.
"Sirus Arnold, we're shutting you down. For good." The leader of the small group leveled his Glock at the President's head, who didn't even blink.
"I'd put that down, if I were you, Sir." A voice from the side called, as a section of the wall slide aside and Thomas stepped out, a machine gun much like Delento's held in his arms, pointed at Chris. A moment passed, and no one moved. Slowly, Chris lowered his gun, held tightly in white knuckles, down to his side.
"That's better." Arnold said quietly, and stood, pushing his chair back till it bumped against the window. "Well now, you've made it this far. All that work, all those lives, and I stop you here. It's the stuff of Greek Tragedy, really." He walked over to the window, turning to look out, holding that controller behind his back, toying faintly with the third switch.
"You all have been a thorn in this company's side for ages. And now you've brought us down. Without this central processor, all our labs will be unable to function. You've ruined us." He says this quietly, turning. "And I must admit I'm quite…upset about this." He paused, as though searching for the correct words. "But I must thank you, and give you this joyous bit of knowledge. You have helped me bring about the end. Of this company, of you, and of everything you can see. All of it, gone, in the flick of a switch." His hand came around, holding up the small box. "With this device, I shall end it. This shall break the seals on every capsule and storage center of the various viruses you worked so hard to stop. It shall release our creations, the monsters and the plagues, and they shall run rampant. This world shall become a paradise of death.." A faint smile, as he lifted the controller to eye level. "And you drove me to it."
He flicked the switch.
Resident Evil: Kingdom ComePart 1: The Ashes of Paradise
"Do not go gently into that good night;
Rage! Rage against the dying of the light."
Dylan Thomas
July 19 - 5:30 AM
Robert Venor, Assistant Manager to the Manager of the current Mayor of New York, stepped out of his apartment, picked up his newspaper, and tugged it open. He would read it as he always did, walking to the bus station at the corner. The second headline, under comments about recent turmoil in the Middle East, was a statistics moment, reporting a worldwide increase in brutal murders by two percent in the last three days. Probably because of teenagers, he figured. It had been a policy of the mayor to blame teenagers.
A moan, echoing from the alley several feet from the bus station brought Robert up short, turning to peer into the darkened passage, eyes wide. It was only five AM, and the angle of the sun made the entire area look shrouded in night. He rolled up his newspaper, sticking it under his arm, and took a few quick steps to the entrance, peering in. "Hello?"
Another moan floated out, sounding quite pained and…empty, and he could make out the dark form of someone sprawled on their side against the wall.
"Hey, you okay?" Footfalls echoed through the passage as he moved towards the figure, bending down. As he got closer, he saw that it was a man, bleeding from his side and his neck, and very much dead. "Jesus!" He stood up straight in surprise, taking a quick step backwards, bumping into the far wall.
And the body began to get up.
It stood slowly, blood oozing still from torn neck and slashed side, its eyes white and lifeless. Staring blankly, it took a lurching step forward, feet dragging on the ground. Robert turned then, broken from his trance, and let out a yell of fear and shock. What the hell? The dead don't get up, and they sure as blazes didn't walk! He'd gone three steps when his foot caught on a crack, and he went sprawling, still a good ten feet from the street.
A groan, from behind him, sent him scrambling back to his feet just as the walking corpse caught up, arms going around his neck, bloody, cold fingers grabbing at his coat, tangling, sending them both to the ground again.
For a moment, all was still, and then the creature pressed into Roberts back, as he tried to push it off. Cold, bitter air across his ear and cheek shocked him for a moment, and then spine-chilling pain as the creature bit deeply into the side of his neck.
He collapsed then, nerves going dead, and had time to register two things before he was gone. His face was lying in an expanding puddle of his own blood, and the creature that had caused this was a zombie.
July 19 – 8:30 AM
"Something isn't right."
Jason Richers glanced up from the pile of papers on his desk to his partner, who was sprawled out in his chair, boots on the desk, a folder in his hand. "Pardon?"
Mark O'Rielly was a tall, thin man, with scraggy red hair, a very slight mustache, and a passion for wearing vests and black combat boots, the current pair on the desk, which Jason could see had been in the mud recently.
Jason leaned back, eyeing his friend and partner, stretching his arms and tossing the pile of papers away for the moment. He was a bit more conservative then his companion; wearing the police issue blue pants, light blue shirt, and black tie.
"The paper claims there is a statistical rise of violent murders worldwide. Here, listen." The other man picked up his newspaper, folding down to the bottom of the first page, and began reading. "Reports yesterday indicate that violent crimes have increased in thirty seven major cities over the last three days. Also, preliminary reports indicate that missing person departments are swamped worldwide, as more and more claims of vanished friends and relatives are made." He tossed the paper back into the pile of them.
"It doesn't make sense, is what I'm saying. That's an impossible statistic." Mark leaned forward, tugging his feet of the desk, to make his point. "In order for an increase such as this to occur, it would take an event happening simultaneously, all over the world. Like, a massive terrorist strike, but no one has claimed anything." He leaned back, a puzzled expression on his face.
"Hold on a moment." Jason rifled through his papers, tugging out a number of files and setting them on the desk. "These are all reports for missing persons, the chief gave them to me a yesterday to look through. I hadn't gotten a chance to, yet. Maybe I should…" He was cut off as a chubby, greasy man with a cigarette dangling between two fingers came up to their desks.
"Boys, we've had another call, something about three people going missing all from the same apartment complex, over by Seventh and Vine. Go check it out." Jason set down his folders as the man talked.
"Sure Chief. I assume Barbara will fill us in on the radio?" He stood, grabbing up is coat, as his partner did the same.
"Yeah. Just get moving. The woman on the phone sounded like she was having a breakdown.."
"Okay, we'll hurry." Mark smiled reassuringly at the large man, who always seemed to worry about the people who called in. Probably why he had gotten to be in charge. Grabbing up the keys to their squad car, the two headed down to the garage.
July 18 – 9:30 PM
Anna Fernando, the daughter of a pair of Umbrella Incorporated Techs and the recent winner of the regional 4th grade spelling championship, was getting worried. She'd come home from school that day, one of seven students on her small school bus that traveled out to Insbruck, Arizona, and neither of her parents had been home. One of them was always home. She'd tried some of the other houses, and gotten no answer when she knocked; even though Mrs. Williams next door wasn't suppose to leave her home and Mr. Barron had just had a heart attack.
So she was really worried. And maybe a little scared.
So, nine O'clock on that particularly nasty Tuesday found her huddled up on the couch, covered in blankets, clutching her old stuffed bear and watching cartoons. She'd heated a bowl of macaroni, just like Mama had shown her, but only eaten a little bit. They were both always home by nine. This just didn't make any sense.
A particularly bad rerun of Scooby-Do got Anna to turn the TV off, curling up in the glow of the small lamp. She'd go to sleep, and when she woke up, everything would be fine. Her parents would be back home, and they'd lift her up and put her to bed with a kiss and a smile, and everything would be okay again. Everything…would be…
When she awoke, it was to the blinking lights of the radio clock. Apparently there had been another power outage, because the clock was slowing blinking 12:00 over and over again. She curled her blankets around her and padded through the semi-darkness of her home, to see if maybe her parents had just left her on the couch for the night, and to get her Mickey mouse watch out of her drawer.
Her room was on the way, so she slipped in and picked up the little watch, turning on the glowing green light that had always cheered her up before. Eleven-thirty. They had to be home. She smiled and darted out of the hallway and down to her parent's room, pushing the door open and peering inside. "Mom, Dad! I'm sorry I fell asleep waiting for you, I didn't know when…"
Nothing. The room was empty.
Her mind registered this somewhere, and she curled her blanket tightly around herself again, tucking her watch into a pocket and padding back to the living room. Curling up on the couch, flicking the TV back on, and laying her head on Mr. Bear, she started to cry.
July 19 – 9:15 AM
Jason pulled the car out of the small police-parking garage and settled in for some heavy-duty waiting. The morning rush hour wasn't quite over, and he was sure it would take at least an hour to get to the call. A few moments later, when he stopped at the light, Mark came jogging up behind the car, carrying a large black bag, which he tucked into the backseat, then slipped into the passenger.
"What's with the bag?" Jason asked with a yawn as the light changed to green and he pulled out onto the boulevard.
"I told you before, something isn't right." His partner shook his head faintly, looking out the window. "I just have a bad feeling about this, buddy. Something's going down. Something big."
"Relax, you're just imagining things. There could be a perfectly legitimate reason for what is going on. Like your terrorist idea." Jason pulled the car out onto the expressway.
"I really hope you're right." Mark said as he leaned forward and tugged off the microphone for the radio. "Barbara, you there? This is car 33, won't you give us our wonderful orders?"
"Morning gentleman." The crisp, aloof voice of Barbara Wagner floated out of the dashboard, and Jason could almost picture her staring down her nose at the microphone and adjusting her glasses. "You two get the 'wonderful' job of looking for some missing tenants. One Mrs. Webber, a landlord over at 709 Vine, reported that four of her tenants are not answering their doors, and haven't been seen in days. You go and check it out, see if you can find anything, and then call me. Now that you're out, I have a few other things that need looking into."
"Roger that. We'll be there in twenty minutes, in case she calls again, over." Mark hung the microphone back on the radio and settled into his chair. "I hope this is as simple as it looks."
July 19 – 3:45 PM
Jo Berkton had never been this frightened before in her entire life. She'd just picked up her son Bobby from daycare, and they had been driving home along route 43 when they'd come across a jackknifed tractor-trailer, blocking the road. There was a Kentucky state trooper standing nearby, walking around as he looked over the wreckage. So far as she could tell it looked like the truck had hit the median, started to go over it, and then collapsed onto its side.
"Looks pretty bad." She had said absently to her five year old, who was trying to stand up in his seat to see. "I hope no one was hurt." She had gotten out of her car to ask the officer if he knew how long till the truck was moved, and he had turned around…
His eyes had been perfectly white, this cloudy, milky mess, like a cataract. He'd started lurching towards her, and she noticed at the same time that a bloody figure was crawling out of the cab of the overturned truck.
"Oh my God!" She'd let out a scream, running back to the car and leaping inside, rolling up the windows quickly. "Baby, come here." She'd unbuckled her son and tugged him into her lap, peering out at the approaching cop. He was stumbling along blindly, towards the car, his arms held out in front of him. Jo couldn't help but compare it to those cheesy horror movies she'd watched as a kid.
Her son had curled up in her lap obediently, and she'd shifted the car into drive, moving to the left to give herself room to make a U-turn. As she'd pulled around, another car, an old chevy pickup, had come rolling down the highway, towards them. She'd attempted to avoid it, but it had slammed into her side, sending them both spinning.
Behind the wheel, she'd seen, was a red-haired young woman in an office dress, her eyes blank and staring, slumped against the window. Forcing her bent door open and grabbing up her son, she'd taken off, for the trees. The cop was only a few feet away, and the woman in the other car was still trying to get out. So she had ran.
And now she was walking along the side of route 43, cradling Bobby in her arms, and watching the few cars go by. She'd only seen about fifteen since she had started moving, and of them, three had been pressed up against the median, cruising along at 50 or so and sending sparks everywhere. Another had been stopped in the middle of the road, just sitting. It had looked empty, and she'd run a mile from it before calming down, wondering where the driver had gone.
Some of the cars looked okay, moving normally. One man had actually waved to her, stopping, but she had said she was okay. She didn't know what was going on, and certainly didn't want to chance getting into a car with someone, not now. It would only take a couple hours to get to the closest town, anyway.
But what in heavens name was going on?
July 19 – 9:50 AM
The squad car pulled up outside 709 Vine and the two police officers climbed out, Mark tugging out his bag and putting it on his shoulder. Jason led the way, heading up the small set of stairs and through the front door, into a dusty, dark hallway with a single hanging light bulb, swinging slowly, in the center of the room.
"Hello? Mrs. Webber? It's the police." Jason moved quietly through the hall, pausing to listen. Silence, for a few moments, and then a haunted, pain-filled moan echoed out from a nearby ajar door. Quickly the two drew their pistols, moving to either side of the door, listening.
"One…two…three!" Jason spun around, kicking the door open and stepping inside, Mark a step or two behind, pistols out. The room was as dingy as the rest of the building, with a battered antique couch, a small television, and a wooden table. And on the other side of the table was the body of an old woman, blood pooling under her, hands outstretched towards the phone. And above her…
A man was kneeling over her, head and shoulders hidden behind the table, but Mark could hear the sound of Crunching, and scraping. "…The hell is he doing?" He whispered to Jason.
"I don't know…" The other officer leveled his gun at the kneeling figure. "Stand, quickly, with your hands in the air." As he stepped forward, towards the figure, Mark moved around the side, leveling his gun at them as well.
For a moment, the figure didn't move, and then slowly it stood, turning towards Jason. Its skin was pale, eyes sunken in, and covered in a white film. It opened its mouth, a moan drifting from between rotting lips.
"What the hell…? Sir, stop. Put your hands in the air." Jason tried again, taking a step back. Another moan, and the man raised his hands, holding them out in a sickening impression of a hug, and stumbled forward, bumping into the table, moving slowly towards the officer.
"Sir. Please…" The man finally managed to get around the table, lurching towards Jason quickly, fingers making clawing motions through the air. Four steps away, Jason pulled the trigger, the bullet plowing through the man's chest, shattering ribs and puncturing a purplish lung. The man stumbled back, hands twitching and dropping to his sides, letting out a low, haunting moan. And then he slowly righted himself and began lurching towards Jason again.
The two officers fired simultaneously, twin masks of shock on their faces at the now bleeding mans' slow progression towards Jason. No one could take a shot in the chest like that and not even fall down. Two bullets plowed into his ribcage, shattering more ribs, one plowing into the heart, while another went through the neck and the last smashing through the temple. The man…the creature spun around, arms flailing, slamming into the wall and sliding down, a blood stained smear left there.
"What the hell was that?" Mark asked, coming slowly around the couch to look at the twitching body. Jason shook his head slowly, staring at the bloodstain on the wall for a moment, then at the body.
"I don't know…it reminded me of those zombies from old movies. Only die after you shoot them in the head." He frowned faintly; looking at the body again, than knelt down by the woman, checking her over.
"You remember that thing I read to you a few months back? The article about Raccoon city, and how it was bombed because there was some kind of unstoppable plague? Maybe this was it! Maybe…these things were there, and they wanted to get rid of them before they spread. I mean…there were cannibal murders there before."
"Maybe." Jason didn't sound like he agreed though, as he stood slowly. "She's dead. Come on, we'll search the rest of the building and then check in with the station." He headed towards the door back into the hallway; stepping out into the dimly lit passage, Mark a few steps behind him.
"Okay, we'll go upstairs, search the rooms to see if anyone is left in the building, then…" He frowned, faintly; glancing back at the room they had exited. There was a shuffling noise, as though someone was walking towards them.
"No way." Mark shook his head, stepping back towards the door, gun raised. "He couldn't have gotten back up after that." A pause, Mark blinking a few times, and then he pulled the trigger. Once, twice, the shots echoed through the hall, and then there was a thud in the other room. Jason looked questioningly at his partner, then over into the room.
Mrs. Webber's body was sprawled out a few feet from the door, a smoking hole just below her left eye, and another in her neck. "She got up." Mark said softly. "She was dead, and she got up. She was a goddamn zombie! And she was coming right for us."
Jason reached out to pat his friend's shoulder gently. "We don't know that, Mark. It could be anything. Come on, we have to check the rest of the house." He shook his head, turning to move towards the Richety staircase at the back of the hall. "She was dead, though…"
He'd worry about all this later.
July 19 – 10:25 AM
Anna awakened to the feel of sunlight on her face, and yawned, sitting up on the couch, her arms still clutched tightly around her stuffed bear, that blanket around her shoulders. She frowned, glancing around the house. The clock on the wall read ten-thirty, and it didn't seem that anything had changed.
Which meant her parents hadn't come home.
She pushed to her feet, socks slipping on the floor as she steadied herself, and ran down the hall to look into her parent's room. Nothing had changed; the bed hadn't been slept in.
"Where are they?" She whispered to her bear, which was clutched to her chest. She wasn't going to cry again. They would be home soon. Maybe there was an accident at their work and they just hadn't been able to leave. Or use the phones.
A few moments later she was in the kitchen, her bear sitting in a chair, blanket curled up in his lap, as she looked for something to eat. She sighed, eventually setting her mind on some microwave waffles, sticking them in the machine and setting the time, then padding back into the living room, and over to the front window.
A moment taken to look outside, short brown locks of hair falling over her face, and she almost started to cry right there. As far as she could see, in both directions, there didn't seem to be a single person. No one! Not the guys who rode those big lawnmowers every day, or Mr. Williams reading the paper on his porch, or even Mrs. Dolby's big scary dog, which always barked at her when she walked to school. She knew most of the people around here worked at the Umbrella facility, but there should have been someone around, even if there was an accident.
The microwave beeped, drawing her back into the kitchen, where she ate the waffles while watching the news. A reporter was talking about the strange rise in missing persons and murders in the last few days. She wasn't sure what he meant, but had the feeling that a three percent rise in people dying and disappearing was a bad thing.
"What's going on?" She asked her bear again, and almost laughed. She hadn't talked to Bear since she was five. Well, with no one else around, it wasn't like she had a choice. She munched on her waffles absently, finishing them up, and turning off the TV when the weatherman came on, since he kept scratching at his neck, and it made her feel all itchy.
"We could go to the store, Mr. Bear." She picked him up, padding along to her room to put on some clean clothes. "We could look for Mr. Roland at the store and see if he knows what's going on." She set the bear down on her bed, going over to her closet and tugging out the big camping bag that her parents had given her for her birthday. She changed quickly, into a dark blue t-shirt, jeans, and her running shoes.
She had a strange feeling she wasn't coming back. Silly, of course, since as soon as she found her parents they'd all come home. But she stuffed a few shirts and jeans into the backpack, and then her blanket and another pair of shoes. The side pockets were filled with her sketchbook, pencils, and her mother's extra cell-phone and charger, which she pilfered from her parent's room. A couple pairs of underwear and socks, and then her stash of candy bars were last in, and she zipped it up, lifting it for a moment to see if she could. Heavy, but she thought she could manage. She dragged it and her bear into the living room, and then scribbled out a note to her parents, leaving it on the kitchen table.
"Went to town (the store) to see what is going on. Come get me when you get home.
Love, Anna."
She put a bright red cup on the corner of the paper to make sure it was noticed, and then slipped back into the living room. A few moments later, her jacket on and her backpack over her shoulders, her Bear clenched in her small arms, she tugged the door open and slipped out into the early afternoon light. It was twelve forty-five.
July 19 – 10:20 AM
On the second floor of the tenant house, the two officers found three empty rooms, and another of the shambling, groaning people in the hall. This time, Jason took the man…the thing…down in one shot to the left forehead, sending it reeling backwards to slump in the far corner. There were two rooms left, at the end of the hallway, and Jason motioned Mark to the closer one, himself moving to the far end. In unison, they pushed the doors open, guns held out.
"Empty." Mark called out, and Jason started to say the same, when he heard a thumping coming from the far wall, blocked by the door. He stepped in quickly, to see two men, in the throws of their blank, lifeless motion, slamming their arms against a closet door. One of them was bleeding from his shoulder, arm and leg, and the other appeared to missing a large chunk of his side.
"Mark, in here," He called out, raising his gun as the two started to turn. Three quick shots to neck and head dropped the closer, who collapsed back against the wall, and two more sent the other twirling around to slam into a cabinet and drop to his knees, head resting against a shelf.
Mark stepped in then, covering his partner, as Jason moved towards the bodies and the closet. He shoved the corpse on the wall over with his foot, watching it nervously, and then grabbed the knob of the closet and tugged it open, gun held ready.
"…Don't shoot!" A panicky voice cried out. Curled up on the floor of the closet, looking dirty and scared was a young blond girl, perhaps seventeen years old. "Please…don't shoot." She said again, arms curled around her knees, rocking back and forth slowly.
"It's okay miss. I'm Jason Richers, this is Mark O'Rielly; we're with the Police. How long have you been hiding in here?" He knelt down next to her, smiling gently.
"A day. A day, I think just a day, but maybe two. What day is it?" She looked up at him, faintly confused.
"It's the nineteenth, miss." Mark called out, having walked around the room to check the other body, making sure both were dead.
"Two days, almost. Not quite." She looked up at them again, her eyes widening, and suddenly she had sprung out of the closet to grab onto Jason. "Oh thank God! You're here. I knew someone would come. Someone had to come, if I just waited." Jason awkwardly patted her back, letting her ramble. "And, you came, so…so…" She frowned, leaning back to look into his face. "…Have you got anything to eat?"
Fifteen minutes later found the three sitting in the squad car outside; Mark having gone to the store at the corner and picked the woman up a sandwich. It turned out her name was Jodie, and she had been coming back from her job when one of those things had attacked her on the street. She'd run into the apartment building, seen another in the hall, and had eventually ended up in that closet, with those two pounding on the doors.
"They would sometimes wander around the room." She said as she ate ravenously. "Bumping into the beds and tables…but they always came back to the closet. They knew I was there."
Mark was sitting in the drivers seat, and now he picked up the radio microphone. "Car thirty-three to dispatch. Barbara, you there?" He clicked off the send button, getting static for a few moments.
"Mark? Oh thank God, someone's still out there." Barbara's voice, sounding frantic, echoed out of the radio. There was a strange banging noise in the background, and Mark thought he heard the sound of glass shattering.
"Barbara? What's going on?" He waved Jason over to the door, so he could hear what was being said.
"I don't know! Some of the officers just…started attacking everyone else; trying to bite them and their eyes had all gone white. It's...oh god, they're still Here. I locked myself in the radio room, but they're outside. Can't you hear them? They're coming…Oh god, someone help me!" Barbara appeared to have slipped into some kind of shock, and a few moments later they heard a thud and the radio blared feedback.
"Get in." Mark said to Jason and Jodie, tugging on his belt. The two climbed in, Jason in the front and Jodie in the back, and Mark sped out, hurtling down the strangely empty street towards the station.
Whatever the hell had happened in the apartment, it was happening at the station now too.